


The Las Vegas Crazies

by rubygirl29



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-07
Updated: 2009-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Even if it involves Ronon Dex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Las Vegas Crazies

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I'm playing fast and loose with an AU, but I was wondering what would happen if Ronon scouted out Detective John Sheppard before McKay told him the whole story.  Or maybe, this is just another alternate universe of my own imagining ...

Title: The Las Vegas Crazies  
Author: Rubygirl29  
Stargate Atlantis/Vegas AU  
Genre: Episode related fic  
Rating: PG13 for language  
Summary: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Even if it involves Ronon Dex.

Note: Maybe I'm playing fast and loose with an AU, but I was wondering what would happen if Ronon scouted out Detective John Sheppard before McKay told him the whole story. Or maybe, this is just another alternate universe of my own imagining ...

The Las Vegas Crazies

Detective John Sheppard was in the throes of a hangover-induced migraine when the call came in. He rolled off his couch and stumbled to his bathroom, shielding his eyes from the lights of the Vegas strip that shimmered like neon ribbons even through the dust-scoured glass of his apartment windows. He opened his medicine cabinet and cursed. The last of his migraine meds was gone, the prescription expired. He held a cold washcloth over his eyes, drank two glasses of water that threatened to come back up, and changed his shirt for one that was just as wrinkled, but clean. His reflection in the mirror looked like death warmed over; pallid, drawn, hazel eyes dulled with pain and liquor. He nearly tripped over the empty bourbon bottle on the floor, and kicked it aside savagely. He was killing himself and he didn't care. But he wasn't going to give anybody the satisfaction of saying he was a coward. He clipped on his badge and turned to the one thing that was keeping him alive. The job.

Vegas attracted all sorts of weirdness and Sheppard had seen most of it. They gave him the trash cases, the ones they said weren't worth solving: the bodies in the desert that had no ID, the hookers left to rot in whorehouses, guys in suits with the backs of their heads blown off execution-style. Sometimes Sheppard got a lucky break. Most of the time, he didn't. It wasn't a big deal. Nobody gave a fuck. The cases just kept landing on his desk.

He'd been assigned this latest case of weird because nobody else wanted to touch it. Usually there was a dark glamour associated with serial killers. It meant big headlines, publicity, celebrity. This case had a whole different vibe to it. Las Vegas was in trouble. The economy had tanked. Headlines about serial killers were the last things a city that depended on tourism needed. So, the case had headed to Area 51, as Spinelli called Sheppard's desk.

Seven bodies had been found in the desert with bizarre wounds on their chests. The coroner said the cellular degradation looked like a 3000 year old mummy instead of a human being from the 21st Century. He didn't know what sort of weapon had caused the wounds. The only real clue he had was trace residue left by a radioactive substance. Sheppard hadn't slept much since they'd found the first corpse. He figured the case had landed on his desk because if he didn't solve it, they had a good reason to fire him. He was just stubborn enough to put some effort into it to frustrate the suits. Meanwhile, for the first time, there might be a break in the case.

Two uniforms and a plainclothes cop were waiting for him when Sheppard walked into the squad room. The fluorescent lights had a bad ballast and blinked in time to his throbbing head. He squinted against the glare. “I'm here. This better be good.”

“Geez, detective. Ya look like crap.” Spinelli came from a long line of Brooklyn cops and had brought his accent with him when he came west. There were times when Sheppard liked it: mostly it just plain grated on his nerves.

“And it's good to see you, too.” He looked at Lorne, the plainclothes cop. “What is it?”

“I think we have a suspect in the killings, sir. McWhirter picked him up off the strip when somebody called in a tip.”

McWhirter snorted. “I don't know what planet he's from, but he's way out there. Totally zoned on something. It took three tasers to bring him down and even then he was fighting,” he said. His chin jutted out as if daring Lorne to dispute his version of what happened. Sheppard didn’t like McWhirter, and judging from Lorne’s expression, the feeling was mutual. He'd get Lorne's version later.

“What's his story?” he asked Lorne.

“He's not talking, sir.”

“Lawyered up, did he?” Sheppard ran a hand over his hair and down his stubbled face. He hated it when Lorne called him 'sir'. Lorne was ex-military, extra polite or maybe just raised right. Whatever, it made him feel old.

Lorne shook his head. “No. I mean he's, literally, not talking.”

Sheppard sighed. “Okay. Somebody get me a cup of coffee and some aspirin.”

“Hangover?” McWhirter asked.

“Migraine.” They could probably smell the liquor, but Sheppard wouldn't give McWhirter the satisfaction. “Let's see this guy.”

He went to the interrogation room and looked in. “Jesus,” he said, nearly speechless. The suspect was big, really big. The black wifebeater he was wearing showed off muscles that didn't come from hours at the gym, but from hard use. His hair was twisted in dreadlocks that hung nearly to his waist and had fallen forward to hide his face. He was wearing some sort of necklace that had what looked like finger bones threaded on it. “Rasta?” John asked.

Lorne shrugged. “I don't think so.”

“Did you get a blood sample?”

Lorne gave him a look. “No offense, sir, but I'd like to have kids someday.”

Sheppard rubbed his eyes. “Okay. I'm going in. Have Spinelli and McWhirter stand guard. If this guy gets crazy I'm gonna need back-up.” He opened the door and went inside.

The suspect raised his head. Sheppard cursed. Three taser hits he could imagine, but this guy looked like he'd been beaten while he was still down. His lip was split and there was an ugly cut over his eye that was bleeding sluggishly. Dark red bruises marred his pale gold skin. But when he looked at Sheppard, his eyes were clear. Sheppard felt sick. This guy wasn't on drugs … at least not on street drugs. No junkie had eyes that calm and unreadable. His hands weren't shaking in the cuffs, either. His only reaction was a wince as a scrawl of blood began working its way from the cut over his eye into his eyebrow.

“Hold on,” Sheppard said and got up from the chair. He knocked on the door. Spinelli jerked it open. His gun was aimed at the suspect. Sheppard held up his hand, pushed the gun aside. “Were you in on this?” he asked.

“Nah, I was here. It was McWhirter's collar.”

Sheppard rounded on McWhirter. “So he was fighting?” His anger made his voice low and rough. “What the fuck were you thinking? He's not on drugs!”

McWhirter glared back. “Look at the guy, He's a fucking monster! He came at me!”

“That's crap! I bet you couldn't get close enough to touch him. You tased him and then beat him up! He's gonna have your ass in court. That means I'm gonna have to explain to some judge just why he looks like he got tossed off the second story. I don't like this shit coming down on me! Get a cold towel and some butterfly bandages so he doesn't bleed all over the interrogation room.” When McWhirter opened his mouth to object, Sheppard said one word, “Don't.” Sometimes, the command was there like it had been in Afghanistan before everything went sour. McWhirter actually paled.

Sheppard went back into the room a few minutes later. He set the towel in front of the prisoner. “Here, for the bruises.” He was assuming the guy spoke English. There was something foreign about him; maybe the eyes, tired and red-rimmed as they were. He looked like a man who had seen experience stripped down to life and death. Sheppard had seen it on the battlefield, had seen it in his own reflection. “You got a name?” he asked.

A brief nod. “Ronon Dex.”

“Detective John Sheppard. Listen, I'm sorry about what happened. Beat cops can get a little crazy.”

There was a small crinkle of what might have been humor at the corner of Dex's undamaged eye. “Been hurt worse.” He looked at the towel, then back at Sheppard. One brow lifted. “I'm a little ...” He inclined his head towards the handcuffs restraining him to the chair.

Sheppard sighed. Damn McWhirter. “If I take those off, will you kill me?”

“I could. I probably won't.” His upper lip twitched slightly. Sheppard eyed him warily, but unlocked one wrist, closing the link around the chair before Dex could take a shot at escape. He tensed, waiting for the man to make a stupid move. He didn't. He just reached for the towel and dabbed at the bloody cut over his eye.

Sheppard peeled the backing off the bandages. “You mind?” He gestured to Dex's forehead.

“No.”

He sat still as Sheppard deftly taped up the cut with two bandages. “Okay, suppose you tell me what happened.”

Dex shrugged. “I was tracking somebody.”

“Tracking?”

“It’s what I do.”

Sheppard gave him a wry grin. “If you’re trying to be inconspicuous, there are better ways.”

Dex's face lit with an unexpected smile. “I'm not too good at inconspicuous. When you look like me, it’s easier to hide in plain sight.” He leaned forward, his amber eyes focused on Sheppard's. “Why'd you pick me up?”

“Anonymous tip. They said you were good for the killings.”

“Figures. They like to play games with our heads.”

“They?” Sheppard's head started throbbing again.

“I know what's killing people out there.”

Maybe the guy was nuts after all. “You mean 'who'?”

Dex shook his head wearily. “I didn't kill anybody.”

It was a non-sequitur and Sheppard was running out of patience quickly. “Listen, I don't have the time or the luxury to play Who's on First. So, why don't you just come out with a name I can do something with?”

“They don't have names. They're called wraith.”

This is why his desk was called Area 51. Sooner or later, all the nut jobs ended up there. Sheppard sighed. “Okay, buddy. I'm sorry about all this, but you're kinda messed up.” He started to rise. Dex's hand closed over his wrist, and those eyes had an expression in them that made Sheppard sit back down. He knew look of desperate truth when he was about to hear it. “You want a lawyer?” He had to ask.

Dex shook his head impatiently. “You've found seven bodies, all with wounds on their chests and looking like they're a thousand years old. Nobody knows why. I can tell you why. The wraith feed on life. They feed on human life, cull a planet and move on to their next killing ground. You've got one wraith here feeding on humans. If he's not stopped, he'll lead others to Earth. I've seen what they do. They destroyed my world.”

“Your world?”

“Place you never heard of.”

“Try me.”

“Sateda. In the Pegasus galaxy.” He said it quietly, like a secret for Sheppard only.

“Right. We're talking space aliens now?” Sheppard stood up. “I'm finished. You need help.”

“Wait! Look.”

Sheppard turned slowly. Dex had pulled up his shirt. The scar on his chest was suspiciously like the ones left on the bodies they'd found. On that flesh, Sheppard could see how the wounds had been made: he spread his fingers and splayed them over Dex's chest. His head felt light.

“How come you're not dead?” he whispered harshly, pulling back as if he had been burned.

Dex shook his head. “Don't know. That's a story for another time.”

Sheppard looked more closely at the bones on the leather thong. “Those aren't human,” he said. He'd seen enough human bones to know them as well as most doctors.

“Wraith. I kill them. I don't kill humans.”

“You're crazy,” Sheppard said.

“You think I am, but I'm not. You're right, I need help. Just not the kind you think.”

Sheppard looked into the man's eyes again. He wasn't crazy. He wasn't delusional. The scars were real, the bones sure looked real. “Let me see the bones,” Sheppard asked. Dex lifted the leather thong over his dreads and handed it to Sheppard. He felt them; cool, dry, a bit rough. Not plastic or ivory. Just … bone. He rubbed a thumb over the longest one. There was a slight wear pattern there, as if Dex had done the same thing a thousand times.

“I need some time,” Sheppard said.

“I'm not goin' anywhere fast.” Again, that slight smile, as if he knew something Sheppard didn't.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

There weren't many markers Sheppard could still call in, but there were a few. He made a call from his cell phone and a few minutes after he hung up, Lorne came into his office. “That was the stage manager from Planet Hollywood. It seems our suspect is an actor in her stage show. He flew in from LA yesterday. There's no way he's our guy.”

“Huh.” Sheppard drained his mug of coffee. “McWhirter must be in a world of hurt right now.” He grinned at Lorne, who grinned back, but didn't say a word.

Sheppard returned to the interrogation room and unlocked the cuffs. “You have an alibi. You're outta here.”

Dex rubbed his wrist and flexed his fingers a few times. “Thanks. Why'd you do this for me?”

Sheppard thought about it for a moment. “I don't know. It just seemed right. And you're not a murderer, even if you are crazy.”

“I'm not crazy.”

“You need a lift somewhere?” Sheppard asked. “It's the least I can do to make up for that asshole McWhirter.”

“Outside of the city?”

“Sure. Why not. Maybe you can show me where you come from.”

They drove out to the desert where even the city lights couldn't obscure the stars in the sky. Ronon Dex stood out there, the faint starlight on his upturned face. “You can't see my world from here, but see that light … there?” Sheppard nodded, though he didn't think he really did. “That's a ship, the Daedalus.”

“A spaceship? Sure. Whatever.” Sheppard shrugged, pretending he didn't feel a chill running down his spine. “Okay, I think I'll head back to the city. It's been … interesting, Ronon Dex.” He started back to his car, then turned around. “Why did you tell me this?”

“Because I knew you would listen. Be careful, Sheppard. Watch your back.”

“We, umm … We've never met, right?”

“Not here.” He touched a pocket in his leather jacket. “Daedalus, I'm ready.” When he turned to Sheppard, there was a gun in his hand. Two flashes of light imprinted on his retinas at the same time -- one white, one red. He went down and remembered nothing more.

^*^*^*^*^*^

Sheppard woke to a cold desert dawn. His head was throbbing, and there was an empty whiskey bottle on the floor of his car. Vague flashes of memory teased at the corners of his mind. A man, tall and muscular, with dreadlocks to his waist and eyes the color of amber. An actor? Sheppard's brain was dull.

He got in the car and opened his glove compartment. His gun and badge were safe. His wallet was in his pocket. He didn't carry cash, but all his credit cards were there. God, his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls and dust. A name came to him. Ronon Dex, from a world called Sateda.

He drove to the city, stopped for coffee and a burrito, and went back to the station. He was sitting at his desk, working on his second cup of coffee when the lieutenant stepped into his office. “Must have been an interesting night,” he said. “Lorne told me what happened.”

“What?”

“The actor from Planet Hollywood? Space alien? McWhirter?”

“Yeah, right.” Sheppard's heart stopped racing. “Just another case of the Las Vegas crazies.”

His phone rang and he picked up. “Sheppard.” He listened for a moment. Looked up at the lieutenant. “We've got another body. Same MO.”

“Jesus. Talk about the crazies. Better get on it, Detective.”

He left, and John stuck his hand in his pocket, felt something. He pulled it out and stared at the leather thong and the entirely alien bones strung on it. He fingered the worn spot and then slipped it over his head, tucking it into his shirt before he drove out to the crime scene in the desert.

The End


End file.
